


Your Song

by sweetdreamsaremadeoffish



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcoholism, Ballet, Drug Use, Elton John - Freeform, F/F, Music, SO, The Music Business, Wamen, but those are also later, i'm soft and gay and this is that, idk man, kind of based on Rocketman, some angst later, songwriter au, to an extent?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22458253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetdreamsaremadeoffish/pseuds/sweetdreamsaremadeoffish
Summary: And you can tell everybody this is your songIt may be quite simple but now that it's doneI hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mindThat I put down in wordsHow wonderful life is while you're in the world
Relationships: Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39
Collections: Madam Spellman 2020 Challenge





	1. Your Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo my turtledoves,  
> this has been in my drafts for approximately 400 billion years (or, since i saw Rocketman last June, idk I was vibin') and when the AU prompt came up, the vote from our lovely ringmaster selected its posting. I'll probably come back to revamp, but here she be.
> 
> here's a pretty instrumental version of the song i kind of imagine works: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1pF9WNUW4gA
> 
> ENJOY THE (VINEGAR) TOMFOOLERY! <3

The Spellman School of Ballet stood hollow against the city skyline, sunrise just peeling back the shutters. Classes had long since begun with liquid lamplight pouring over the floor, glowing on pale pointe shoes and slender calves through their rousing pacés and rapid barre-work. Thirteen smooth buns nested atop thirteen porcelain dolls with thirteen spines hewn from steel.

The studio door slammed, leaving a small, bracken-crowned creature in its shattering wake, and the dancers, tied stiffly to their places, upturned aristocratic noses and studied themselves in the wall of mirrors, waiting for the ballet mistress to sort the wretch.

Reflected comparison of their forms and blossoming curves naturally selected the slim, strong redheaded girl at the formation’s center.

Preening, already primed for the position of prima, Zelda Spellman was the ever-elegant, undeniable star of the youth company. With her soft, angelic features and feathery feet, she outshone every desperate child who would soon be relegated to the corps. Even her brother Edward, the heir-apparent to the boy’s program, her demonstration partner, dulled beside Zelda’s innate aptitude. Hilda, the youngest of the Spellmans, at the tender age of five, had already informed their mother she would not be entering classes at the school, instead falling under the jovial apprenticeship of her nanny, the company’s seamstress.

Zelda lived dance, breathed it every moment, turning her lithe body to an unteachable sort of movement and vibrance before she was twelve years old. Oddly, she seemed indifferent to it all, unfettered by expectation or convention.

So, when the wiry, agitated girl under the mass of tangled locks appeared, uncertain in the corner by the piano, she had no qualms abandoning her rigid fifth and approaching the stranger.

“Can I help you?” Zelda asked, a hand coming to the girl’s gaunt arm. “Are you lost?”

The thicket of curls swept from one side to the other in a quick shake of her hidden head.

“My father- The pianist-” She stopped, steadying herself on her battered shoes. “My father is your pianist. He’s taken ill at home and sent me along in his place. For the day.”

The girls tittered amongst themselves as Zelda lead the waif to the piano, a black whale of swirling strings in the studio's corner, and perched beside her on the bench.

"I'm Zelda Spellman," she whispered, extending a small hand. "What's your name?"

"Lilith," her companion replied. Those big blue eyes blinked, owlish and curious in the light of Zelda's kindness.

"Let's see if you're up to the task, shall we?" Zelda's aunt, the teacher, snapped, impatiently cracking her cane on the hardwood floor.

Zelda squeezed her hand before letting go. "Play us something, Lilith."

She returned to her flock, taking up her place at the center of their orbit, a celestial creature, and Lilith was transfixed. Shaking out her buzzing hands, she poised her curved fingers above ivory keys, closed her eyes and began to play.

Lilith’s father was often ill. He was aged to cracking whiteness and creaked like the studio floor when he walked, old enough that the students—and sometimes even the teachers—lost track of his name. But he had been the Spellmans’ pianist since the school’s opening, and Zelda’s family believed firmly in loyalty.

So, even as he neared death, he moved into the school’s attic, though his daughter played more often than not, limber as the young women that twirled in her tunes, the music flowing fountainous from her fingertips.

The girls warmed to her well enough, manicured nails tripping over her in the path of leaving, and summers drove her to the student dormitories with sweat down her back. They played cards, betting their mothers’ jewelry and lipstick, and smoked cigarettes out open bay windows, draped over balcony banisters above the stench of the city, dropping ashes and giggles on unsuspecting passers-by from on high. Lilith played sharply, cornflower eyes plucked and narrow on her father’s modest watch atop the pile of diamonds and gold.

She always won it back to her wrist, gracious to the whining girls about her in returning what was not theirs to give.

Zelda glided through the dancer-strewn common area on her way from her room to a hot bath, and stumbled over Lilith’s unthinking ankle. An apology bubbled to her lips but caught in her throat, bottled, at the smooth white mountains of Zelda’s shoulders swelling from her tightly tucked towel. Her auburn hair blazed in the mid-morning light, still nailed to her skull in knives and needles.

Getting older was getting dangerous, and Lilith could not hold to herself. She reached out and pulled pin after pin after pin from Zelda’s bun until it thundered down her neck, waves another sort of red sea.

Twelve pairs of eyes pried on them, stock still on either side of the jackpot, and Zelda dodged the next move, ducking through the next doorway.

She felt blue rush from behind and knew Lilith’s gaze was on her without turning. 

Zelda found the girl cross-legged on her bed after the water ran cold. She was pensive, strumming Zelda’s guitar over her trim thigh, a familiar book laid open on Zelda’s pillow.

Wrath overthrew wonder.

“What the fuck?” she barked, snatching the journal up to her chest, _away_ , a pressed flower floating to the floor. A gold-threaded violet. 

Lilith jumped, the guitar slipped with a discordant twang, and both girls dove to its rescue. Looking up was a gamble. Zelda came to play.

“You were reading my diary?” An explanation was thoroughly in order.

“I’m sorry. I just- I came in, and it was right there, and I…” Lilith trailed off, blinking up at her. “I didn’t know you wrote poetry.”

Zelda scoffed. “I don’t. They’re just little musings. Thoughts that happen on me through the day.”

Lilith watched her like dogs watch a bonfire, leaning in. “They’re beautiful. Melodic, _lyrical_ , even.”

“Oh, yes, and my guitar?” Zelda threw another defensive barb, clutching her diary close.

“I didn’t really mean to, your words just demanded music.” She said it simple as breathing. Like it was a normal, corporeal thing. Zelda’s curiosity got the better of her, and she and her towel flopped down on the bedding beside Lilith.

“Alright, then. Let’s hear it.”

Ever humble, Lilith was bashful. Ducked to the soft trill of chords at her fingertips. 

_It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside_ , Lilith sang. _I'm not one of those who can easily hide_.

Her voice was spring breezes through silk curtains, nights under covers too hot and heavy. _Don't have much money_ , Lilith lamented. _But boy if I did, I'd buy a big house where we both could live_.

Zelda blushed at the gross emotion of it, her mind inking Lilith’s tongue.

 _If I was a sculptor, but then again, no_. Lilith shook her head, smiling with the sentiment. _Or a man who makes potions in a traveling show_. She certainly was an enchantress in her own right. Zelda could scarcely breathe.

 _Oh I know it's not much but it's the best I can do_ , she shrugged, picking at the strings in tumbling succession.

 _My gift is my song and_ , she declared. _This one's for you_.

 _And you can tell everybody this is your song  
It may be quite simple but now that it's done  
I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind  
That I put down in words_.

A lock of dark hair fell across her eyes when she lifted her chin, meeting Zelda halfway in the solemn near-silence of her bedroom.

 _How wonderful life is while you're in the world_.

They sat in the quiet for some time, staring at each other in the dim, grey-green of early afternoon. Automobile horns honked somewhere below on the street, the poker game in the other room long fallen by the wayside.

“That’s as far as I’ve gotten.” Lilith’s voice returned to her body, the siren song ebbing soon as it had flowed over their shores. Zelda could only hum her answer, half-hearted by shock.

“Can I ask, um-” She shyly set Zelda’s guitar aside. “Who did you write it for?”

Zelda kissed her. Her hands came to cup the cut of Lilith’s jaw, her thumb to stroke her chin. Zelda’s mute mouth poured every errant word into kissing her, and when they broke from one another, Lilith flushed a burning pink.

“Who do you think?” she rasped, squeezing Lilith’s fingers in her lap. Somewhere, a clock struck the hour and brought Zelda back to herself, straightening. “Now, get out. I need to get dressed.”

Lilith was pliant, mud in her hands smeared to the door, though she turned back for another searing seal of yet unwritten promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me if you like itttttt ;)


	2. Tiny Dancer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here have some gay fluff to soothe your soul. <3

She threw the tied pillowcase down the fire escape and clambered down after it, rolling her feet through to the sidewalk. The April moon spied as Zelda tossed the last of her things into the trunk and pushed Lilith up against the Beetle’s yellow side for a fierce, plundering kiss. It was near midnight, and the school’s every window was dark but one. Hilda, eleven now, poked her head into its halo and waved down to her big sister, who blew a kiss in return.

“Bye-bye, Zelds!” Hilda whisper-shouted to the street with a child’s clumsiness.

“I’ll write to you soon,” Zelda assured her, a finger to her lips.

“Promise?”

“I promise, Hildie.”

With that, the engine was running, and the girls were away, flashing their headlights in farewell to the younger Spellman as they disappeared into the night.

Two months in Los Angeles and they booked their pivotal gig. It was late—too late—at the bar where Zelda was waitressing nights. Lilith helped teach children’s piano lessons during the day, and they missed each other in dawn and dusk more often than not, with hardly enough time to write. The moments they could spend together, though, were gentle and bright, curled with heads in laps, nails carding through thick hair while they breathed smoke and secrets into each other’s mouths. 

The bar was all molasses and smoke, the stage tight and uneven. Lilith’s cheap keyboard barely fit in its corner. She still mourned the loss of the studio’s grand piano, but it was a small price to pay to keep her redheaded angel and chase their wild dreams.

Two in the morning and the house was no semblance of full, but still they stepped up hand in hand. Zelda’s littlest finger hooked around hers with a sweet squeeze of good luck and love. Lilith listened as Zelda introduced them, the small audience charmed drunken and drooling, no doubt for her lover’s lines.

She’d been trying her hand at lyrics under Zelda’s watchful eye, writing what she knows and lamenting her inability to capture the joyful crinkles at the corners of her teacher’s pine smile. They say to write what you know.

_Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band_ , she crooned first, murmuring through her unsteady story. _Pretty eyes, a pirate smile, you’ll marry a music man_.

_Ballerina._ Zelda rolled her eyes at the call back to her past life, theirs. _You must have seen her dancing in the sand_.

She recalled breaking down at the side of the road on their way, the beach beside them in escape. Zelda, who had never been to the ocean, leapt to shuffle through the foam, whisking white surf up in a giggling whirlwind until they fell down into the sand, lips on skin.

_And now she’s in me, always with me._ Lilith praised the powers that be for that miracle. _Tiny dancer in my hand_.

The spotlight was on Zelda, but Zelda’s eyes were on her, bright green haloed in fire, and all was right with the world.

_But oh how it feels so real  
Lying here with no one near  
And only you and you can hear me  
When I say softly, slowly_

Lilith loved the reflexive point of Zelda’s toes when they touched, dancing in their cramped kitchenette, around their lumped mattress on the floor. A dirty window in the basement room they rented poured filmy orange light over their often bare young bodies, the dizzy haze of Hollywood turning even the roaches glamourous. Laughter soaked tired into their walls, and Zelda looked damn cute in the little apron and soda jerk hat she hated.

_Hold me closer, tiny dancer._ Zelda met her with harmony in the drink-sodden air. _Count the headlights on the highway. Lay me down in sheets of linen. You had a busy day today_.

Lilith didn’t believe in much, there was no pure faith in her heart like Zelda’s. Her father hadn’t taught her to love any god, but that night she watched her tiny dancer spin into dizziness and fleetingly knew what it was to worship some higher power. The power in grace, Zelda’s wrists, Zelda’s hips, up on-stage and later, at home, tangled in cheap sheets.

A week later, Zelda kicked their door open with dawn burning over the sprawling city, raining mail as she fell exhausted into their bed and buried her face in the hollow of Lilith’s shoulder.

“Mm, good morning.” She brushed a kiss into Zelda’s hair, fond hands greeting to her waist.

“I swear, the next time Gerald gropes me, I’m going to break his damn wrist,” came a muffled declaration against Lilith’s chest.

Lilith yawned. “You always say that, baby, but Gerry tips the best.” Zelda sat up, indignant in yellow.

“Screw you.” There was a chuckle in her throat, though she huffed. “What happened to defending my honor?”

“It’s your own argument, Zee. I’d be happy to defend your honor against Gerald if you gave me the chance. And _you_.” She sneaked a wink in while blinking away sleep. “You are welcome to screw me.”

Zelda gasped and smacked her with a pillow, rising up on her knees for a better angle when Lilith propped herself up by the elbows to kiss her neck. The moment of distraction was all she needed to pin the redhead beneath her and suck a trail of adoration low.

“Lilith,” Zelda wheezed, out of breath for sugar. “Lily, wait.”

She looked up from unraveling buttons and peach flesh. “What?”

“There was something in the mail from Night Records.”

“ _What?_ ” They shuffled and ruffled frantic through the blankets and bills, paper on paper, sheet on sheet, and skin on skin.

Coming up for air triumphant, Zelda tugged them to the head of their bed. Lilith leaned back against the wall and let Zelda crawl into her arms, her chin sinking onto Zelda’s shoulder while their hands wove together to hold the fateful letter crunched and white-knuckled.

“Hey,” she said, laying her pinkie over Zelda’s to stroke and soothe. Her form was tight and tense, training taking over with her nerves. “We have each other no matter what happens next, remember?”

Zelda nodded, settling softer cheek to cheek, gutted the envelope, and unfolded their future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why yes, i _am_ way too invested in this AU now, thank you for noticing. :)
> 
> and commenting? (please?)
> 
> Love ya, R


End file.
